Leap of Faith
by Unwittingly
Summary: Set immediately after 3.16 No Rest for the Wicked. Sam isn't dealing with Dean's death too well, but he has to find a way to keep living. Second chapter of probably four.
1. Chapter 1

The world ended.

The sun exploded, Earth disintegrated, and life as Sam knew it was over. There was nothing left. Dean was dead. Torn to ribbons before his very eyes, and he couldn't lift a goddamn finger to stop it. He couldn't even kill Lilith before she got a chance to escape. Then both Ruby and Dean were sent to Hell and Sam was left clinging to Dean's bloody and broken body, screaming bloody murder until his throat was raw. When Bobby found him, he was still holding his brother, sobbing silently but only because he'd screamed his voice away.

"Sam..." he said gingerly, voice breaking just a little. Sam shook his head, tightening his grip on Dean. "Sam," he repeated, firmer, and walked over to place a hand on his shoulder, "It's time to let go, son."

Sam shook his head again and replied in a raspy and cracked voice, "I can't. I can't, Bobby, it's-it's my fault and I couldn't stop it and I can't just-"

"Sam," once more, even firmer and with a shake of his shoulder, "This ain't your fault, boy. Dean knew what he was gettin' into. He wouldn't want-"

"Wouldn't want _what_, Bobby?" Sam interrupted, snapping his head up to look at him. His eyes were red, cheeks soaked in tears to the point that it burned, and his shirt was sticking to his body, drenched in his brother's blood. It was a gruesome sight in more ways than one. "He didn't want this. He was terrified. And I watched him get ripped to pieces. How am I supposed to just let go?"

Bobby's grip on his shoulder tightened, but not to comfort Sam or anything like that. His heart was just about breaking, and though he wasn't in the room when it happened, he could imagine it well enough. "You Winchesters're more alike than you realize. So ready to blame yourselves and never ready to give up. Don't you get it, Sam? Y'can't keep repeatin' the same mistakes over 'n over. You gotta let go. You know what we gotta do."

"No."

"Sam-"

"I said _no_, Bobby." Sam bowed his head over Dean again, his grip on Dean's shirt making his knuckles turn gray. There was sure to be bruises on his palms, even from through the fabric. He couldn't even think of burning his body; the thought of it sickened him. He would've been mad at Bobby for even thinking about it if his heart wasn't already busy trying to beat its way out of his chest. It hurt, oh God, did it hurt, and Sam was having trouble breathing, let alone arguing.

"Dammit, boy," Bobby replied weakly, not even bothering to try hiding the shakiness of his voice, "You think this doesn't hurt me just as much? You boys're all I've got. Can't stand to lose you too, Sam."

That didn't help. If anything, it made things harder. His heart and his lungs were already gone, but now his blood was going and soon it'd be his brain. He couldn't think straight, and only one word was playing on repeat in the tattered remains of his mind: _Dean_. "We bury him. Just until I find a way to get him back. He's gonna need his body when I get him back."

"Sam-"

Interrupting yet again, Sam looked back up at Bobby, tears unrelenting and endless, "_Please_, Bobby. I can't-. Please."

Sam was already so far gone at that point, all Bobby could do was agree.

The next day, not a month later or even a week but the very next fucking day, Sam took off on his own. Bobby tried to stop him, tried to talk some sense into him, but Sam wasn't having any of it. The sun was already rising by the time they finished digging and he gave a half-assed goodbye before hopping into the Impala and chasing the nearest horizon. He drove and drove and drove until she couldn't take it anymore, growling defensively and begging for mercy, and Sam realized that she was crying too.

The car putted to a stop on the side of the road and he rested his forehead on the steering wheel, sobbing quietly and pounding his fists into the leather seats. Middle of bumfuck nowhere and he shouldn't _be_ here. Shouldn't be pushing his limits, shouldn't be driving to nowhere, shouldn't even be in the fucking driver's seat. Dean's blood was still caked all over his clothes, the wheel was still grooved perfectly to fit Dean's hands, and Sam could still hear Dean's voice in the back of his head saying _'Don't be a bitch, Sammy. Keep on movin_'.

Dean was everywhere and nowhere and Sam was drowning in it.

He used the very last of the Impala's gas to get to the shadiest motel he could find; shady enough not to question the massive amounts of blood or the wadded up bills. Once inside the cracked-ceiling, single light bathroom, Sam peeled off his clothes and threw them carelessly into a disturbingly stained corner. Dean's blood had soaked through Sam's shirt into his skin and even after standing in excruciatingly hot water until burned raw, Sam still didn't feel clean. The feeling of death clinging to him wouldn't go away, couldn't stop seeing Dean's death replying over and over in his head, and this fucking blood wouldn't get _off_.

In an attempt to keep himself from going MacBeth, he got out of the shower in a huff and stood in front of the mirror. He looked like Hell. Dark rings beneath eyes so bloodshot, you'd think he hadn't known a day's rest in his life; skin wrought tight and in flames from the scalding water; and every muscle in his body tense as he gripped the sides of the sink. Dean's necklace was dangling from his neck, and Sam watched it swing back and forth endlessly. It was supposed to be a sign of peace and protection but he felt a storm raging inside him, tearing apart everything he'd ever known and believed in.

Their lives had always been far from easy but without Dean around, it was like all those wounds had been dug up, salted and burned. But this time, the ghosts weren't leaving and he was haunted by every memory, every word, every flicker of light from the lightbulb above him. He was on fire, literally, figuratively, and he couldn't fucking take it.

His fist connected with the mirror before he really knew what was happening and the sight of more blood made him vomit. It was his own blood, but also Dean's and John's and Mary's and he was fucking _alone_. Sam was frozen in that moment when all that kept him grounded was ripped from him with the claws of a Hellhound.

The world was over. He was trapped.

So time started moving without him.

Sam woke up in a cold sweat, breathing hard and heart going a million miles an hour until he realized where he was: an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar motel room. A distant memory of the same situation set panic coursing through his veins and he quickly pulled off his shirt only to find the Devil's trap on his chest still fully intact. He exhaled deeply in relief, "Damn. What the Hell happened last night, Dean?" The croakiness of his voice startled him and he looked over to where his brother should have been sleeping, only to find a table beneath a window instead of a second queen sized bed. A table littered with empty bottles of liquor, half of which were smashed, not counting the ones that were on the floor. And a very disturbing lack of his brother's presence.

"Dean?" The memory came flooding back to him accompanied by a headache, which had him curled over with his head in his hands. Dead was dead. Dead and gone and without him, Sam had gone into auto-pilot, no longer living but simply…_existing_. It suddenly made sense why he couldn't remember last night – he'd apparently bought out a liquor store. He got up with a grown and went to the bathroom. Unshaven, but that wasn't unusual. What _was_ unusual was that he looked like he hadn't shaved in _days_. His brows pulled together in confusion and he went back to the bed, taking the motel's notepad out of the nightstand drawer.

"Greenbridge, California?" he coughed, trying to clear that awful scratchiness from his voice. The last thing he remembered was crossing the Illinois state border into Iowa. How the Hell did he end up in California? The awful thought that he'd been on auto-pilot for a few _days_ crept its way into Sam's head, and then things started coming back to him. He remembered driving there, but not when. He remembered coming into the room, but not falling asleep. He remember screaming and crying and drinking and breaking things, all of it, and _goddammit_, who the fuck was supposed to save him now?

How was he supposed to get out of this hole with no one to toss him a rope? How was he supposed to keep moving with no one to shove him forward against his will? How was he supposed to live without Dean? He wasn't. He wasn't supposed to live without him, and wasn't that the problem in the first place? Dean was in hell because of _him_, dead because of _him_, and how was he supposed to live with that?

He wasn't. He couldn't.

Sam rushed from the bathroom to where he had haphazardly their bag of weapons into a corner and pulled out a painfully familiar pistol. A .45 caliber custom engraved Colt, one he'd only ever used in dire moments, and what better a time to use Dean's gun than to even the score? After everything he'd done, there was no way he would be heading upstairs, and that thought didn't bug him as much as it should've. It meant he could follow Dean; he could find him and everything would be okay again. Home, completion, even in Hell, and that was all Sam wanted. That's all.

But he couldn't do it. The gun was too heavy, the trigger too stiff, and nothing would ever let him take his own life like that. Dean would climb out of Hell and kill Sam himself before he ever got the chance. He dropped the gun, quietly crying, and then it was all over. "Fuck," he muttered pathetically, head once again in his hands. "_Fuck_!" he shouted, punching the wall with his already injured hand. There was a sickening crack, the cuts from the mirror opening up again along with a few newly broken bones.

"Fuck…" and then everything went dark.


	2. Chapter 2

Two more days passed without notice and then Sam was driving with a bottle of Jack and the soft purr of the Impala as his only companions. She missed her owner almost as much as he did, and neither of them was really in any shape to be driving, but she was still trucking along. Just like Sam. He couldn't kill himself – he wasn't that weak _or_ that strong – so he had to find something else to busy himself with. Time doing nothing meant time to think, and thinking was the last thing he wanted to do. There were a million places his mind could take him and most of them were a lot darker than the place he was already in. No, he couldn't afford to sink any lower when he was already barely holding on. He had to keep moving, keep fighting, keep driving.

He had to get Dean back.

It was already nearing twilight by the time Sam found what he was looking for: two roads that crossed and went on for miles in every direction to nowhere. It was the perfect place to make a deal, and Sam would give anything and everything to make this one. Jack went with him while the Impala waited off to the side, seemingly sagging a little because even she could tell this wouldn't end well.

Sam stumbled to where he guessed dead center was but could've been miles off for how drunk he was, but it didn't matter in the slightest. Details blurred together and there was only thing left that he cared about. He took a long swig from the bottle before setting it down and starting to dig with one hand, his broken right hand gingerly holding a metal tin that looked as though someone mistook it for a piñata and had a party. No prizes in there, guy. Only a few bones, some grave dirt and one of Sam's fake IDs. Everything he'd need to make a summoning.

Once it was covered with a thin layer of dirt, he took up his bottle again and stood shakily, using all that was left of his willpower to keep him on his feet. The wait seemed to last an eternity, and when the demon finally appeared, her voice was like perfectly shattered glass aimed directly at his throat.

"My, my, Sammy," she called from behind him, and the nickname made him snarl as he turned to face her; no one had the right to use that name. Everyone that did was long dead and fuck, stop giving Sam time to think. "You look like you've seen Hell," and didn't she just look so damn pleased with herself.

Sam lifted his head haughtily, "You would know, wouldn't you?"

"Ooh, puppy's got a bark. And here I thought you were supposed to be the sweet one," she mused, knowing that every word cut closer and closer, deeper and deeper and _God_, did it hurt.

"Let's just cut the crap, okay? You know why I'm here."

"And why is that?"

"You _know_-"

"Well now, how do you know I don't get you a new pair of boots or a shiny new car? That beat up old girl is way past her time-"

"My brother," he spat, hating how his voice cracked on the word. He swallowed and tried again, "I want Dean back."

She tilted her head with fake sympathy, even going so far as to throw in a little frown for the full nauseating effect, "Like father, like brother, like poor, sad, lonely Sammy." Glass, daggers, and goddammit, this was a bad idea. Of course she knew every way to get to him; that was her job, that's what a fucking demon lives for. He bowed his head with an inaudible gasp, chest tightening with each passing second. He was thinking, but he just had to keep thinking of Dean. Think of Dean and everything'd be okay. Maybe. "You should really let go, you know."

"That's rich, coming from you."

"You're really mad at _me_, Sam?" she stepped closer and he lifted his head again to glare down at her, "I'm not the one that killed your brother."

"You might as well be," because they're all the same, every last one of them. He would kill them all if they weren't his only hope, and even then, he wasn't sure he could stop himself. Even if she wasn't technically the one that killed him, or even the one that made his deal, there was still the undeniable urge to kill her on the spot.

"Sam," she said softly, and he was falling to pieces so fast he didn't even stop her when she reached up to place a hand on his cheek, "We brought you back to life and gave you one whole year with your brother. We let you be happy for longer than you were supposed to be. How could you ask for anything more?"

"Please," he whispered, barely even aware that he'd said it at all. Everything that she said was true, but it didn't change a thing. He'd rather be rotting in the ground with Dean than up here all alone. "Please. I need him. You're my only hope."

She smiled and for a second, the sympathy almost seemed sincere, but that might've been the whiskey talking, "You really are sweet, you know. But I can't help you." He grit his teeth and looked back down at the ground, her hand following him down to his chin and lifting it up to face her, "You have to let go."

"I can't," he said through bared teeth, and she shook her head.

"You have to. Because no matter what you do, in the end, you wind up alone."

And then she was gone.

And Sam was alone.

Hours later, Sam's focus on the pitch black nothing in front of him was snatched away by the sound of his phone ringing. It seemed out of place in the dead silence of the night and actually confused him a little, and he ended up reaching for it with his broken hand. Bad idea, terrible idea, and he pulled over on the side of the road to wince in pain for a second before picking up with his left.

"Hullo?"

"Sam?" Bobby's voice boomed too loud through the speaker, disdain ringing clear through Sam's head, "Boy, I been trying to call you damn near a week now. You too busy to pick up a phone?"

"A week?" Sam repeated quietly, dazed. He hadn't kept track of the passing hours, let alone days, and he could hardly remember when exactly Dean died. All he knew was that it felt like yesterday and that it was the worst birthday anyone ever had in the history of ever. That was pretty much all his brain could process, not even registering that Bobby implied this wasn't his first call.

"Damn right, it's been a week. Where are you? And you better not tell me you been holed up in some shady motel, drownin' yerself in whiskey the whole time." Sam was coherent enough to think '_hypocrite'_, because he could tell Bobby was drunk without even being near him.

"I'm…driving," he managed, resting his forehead against the steering wheel.

"Driving where?"

"I don't know, Bobby, I'm just driving." A moment of silence passed, because both of them were in the same place, going in the same circles. They both sounded tired as neither of them had slept, and both of them were going nowhere, fast. Bobby was just handling his depression a little more healthily than Sam.

"…Sam, this ain't exactly easy for me either, y'know. I'm…I worry 'bout you, kid."

He exhaled harshly against the wheel, lifetimes passing in a matter of seconds, and his throat started tightening while he spoke, "I know you do, Bobby. And, I'm grateful, but. I can't."

"Can't wha-"

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and then the phone found a new home out the window and against a nearby tree. The demon told him that he would end up alone and that was all he wanted now: to be alone in his own little world. He didn't want to be on this road, in this state, on this fucking _planet_. He wanted solitude, but everywhere he went, he was haunted by Dean and Dean's death and this blinding rage and sorrow and loneliness and he couldn't fucking take it.

The world might not have noticed that Dean was gone, but Sam noticed that without Dean, the world might as well have been gone.

A week later (or maybe just a few days, Sam had no clue anymore), after two more failed attempts at making a deal and endless hours of poring over books that didn't make sense half because he was drowning in nine kinds of alcohol and half because they went deeper into magic than he'd ever gone before, Sam was running out of options. Well, no, that wasn't true. He had plenty of options. But all of them involved different kinds of liquor and an approximation of how long it would take for his liver to give out.

As he was pursuing one of these less-than-favorable options, someone grabbed him from behind. He'd spent the past two weeks of his life drunk beyond all reason and the last time he was in a fight felt like millennia ago, so it didn't come as a surprise that he could hardly fight back. He wasn't even sure he wanted to. Even after Ruby had pulled him from where the demons were expecting him to be killed, after she returned in a body that wasn't being used by anyone else, he wasn't sure he wanted to keep fighting. He was just so…_tired_.

He was tired of watching the sun rise after yet another sleepless night filled with imaginative nightmares he would never tell anyone about. He was tired of drowning himself in alcohol because he didn't want to be coherent when nothing in the world made sense anymore. He was tired of missing a life he never asked for but was dragged back into kicking and screaming.

He was tired. And he didn't want to fight anymore.

"I can't bring Dean back. But I can get you something else that you want." Disbelief and near apathy, Sam rolled his eyes. There was nothing else he wanted. There was nothing more important than Dean, nothing worth fighting for but Dean, so what the _Hell_ could she possibly get him?

"And, uh…what's that?"

"Lilith."

Lilith.

Lilith. Lilith. How had he not thought of that? Lilith. The bitch that killed Dean right in front of him, the monster that took him away all for the sake of some stupid plan that Sam couldn't give a rat's ass about. Lilith. He was angry, good _Lord_, was he angry, and if he couldn't live for the sake of living then he could definitely live for the sake of killing. All that bottled up rage was the perfect drive. Exactly what he needed.

Lilith.

"I'm ready. Let's go."


End file.
